Love can’t get me home by 6 for you
Love can’t get me to draw a bath for you
Love can’t get me to buy a $2 rose for you
Love killed our relationship
because I love someone or something else
Love invented divorce

I watch Leave it to Beaver.
I watch I Dream of Jeannie.
I watch a dead decade.
I pay for each syndication.

I listen to the Beatles.
I listen to the Doors.
I listen to a dead decade.
I pay for each new box set.

Pink Floyd, the Eagles, Page/Plant tickets
I want to relive a dead decade.
I pay top price for floor seating.

Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon
make more money now off their dead decade.
I financially support a dead person.

The 90’s are passing me by.
This decade can’t die
leaving behind its little contribution of gay rights, Generation X, age of information and 90210.
How am I suppose to market my generation
with this 90’s rubbish?
I need a revolution, a dead politician, a Vietnam, psychedelic rock, and free love.
How am I going to steal my children’s money
with my blasé dead decade?

She’s a machine.
I’ll call her Veronica.
She trained me to be the lover that I am
like the Nintendo game that taught me to be Super Mario.

Veronica has 3 speeds:
slow, medium, and fast
powered by double D.
Before each practice
standing naked in front of a picture
dreamily looking at the ideal girl parts
I mentally prepare by chanting a mantra,
“Veronica’s love reservoir will not
vibrate me into premature ejaculated ecstasy.
I must learn to satisfy the woman
with multiple orgasms.”
Squirt, Squirt
Damn It!!!

Practice after practice
I finally prevail.
I can now wear down the vibration
before the vibration wears down me.

Like the video games that teach kids
to be efficient killers.
Veronica taught me to be a better lover.

Veronica in the email you wrote about your anger
and our dysfunction.
The one’s and zero’s filtered through your computer,
others’ computers, and finally my computer
does not express who we are.
Printing your e-mail I see
what you learned in grade school.
What you forgot, Microsoft Word fills in the rest.
Our lives took on more than symbolism.

Please write me a letter.
I want to see how stable
your pen is in perfectly shaped sentences.
Then watch the words take on your madness
with each crossed out thought
and sloppy caricature.
Remember last winter when you went to get
the mail and the kids, Bob and Bev, locked the house door.
At first you tried knocking politely then smashed
the window pane to let yourself in.

I want to see your fingerprints’
images smudged in black ink.
Do you recall holding hands in bed
while reading?
The comfortable silence between the two of us.
Not always having to
entertain with sex, booze, or conversation.
Only needing two books and touch to sustain
love.

I want to smell and see where you are.
Take me to Denny’s with the odor of cigarette smoke
and coffee stained saturated paper.
Do you remember eating mozzarella cheese sticks
at 2:30AM after dancing?

I want to find the short black curly hair
that shows up in the oddest places.
To recall one last time the night in
Salt Lake City where we impregnated our
dreams into our heads and bodies that eventually
blossomed into who we were—man and wife.
If nothing else, a piece of DNA to show my friends
“this is you.”

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You Can't Hide an Elephant in an Omelet has been picked up by Bangkok Books. For those who have been wanting to read a cleverly written book about eating omelets in South East Asia here's your opportunity.
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